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“Flint’s working tonight,” she eventually says. “You may go in, but I should warn you that The Vault has a dress code. In the future, we’d appreciate appropriate attire.”

She gestures to a heavy door behind her, which unlocks with an audible click.

“Thank you,” I say, moving past her before she can change her mind.

The main room hits all my senses at once. The lighting is even lower here, predominantly red and black with strategic spotlights highlighting certain areas. Music with a heavy bass line thrums through the space. The original bank features have been preserved—high ceilings, marble columns, and even the original vault door standing open at the far end, leading to what looks like private rooms.

What the old bank didn’t have were the plush velvet couches arranged throughout the space, or the people on them engaging in activities that make my cheeks heat. A woman in a corset leads a man on aleash past me. In one corner, a man in an expensive suit has a woman bent over his lap, her dress hiked up as he spanks her with what looks like a leather paddle. Neither seems concerned about their audience.

I feel painfully out of place in my cardigan and jeans, surrounded by silk, leather, and skin. Several people glance at me with confusion or amusement before they return to their conversations or partners.

The bar stretches along one wall, black marble with soft lighting underneath. And there’s Flint, mixing a drink with practiced movements, his attention focused on the liquid he’s pouring. He looks different here—still in all black, but more polished. His hair is pulled back, the white streak even more striking against the black. He laughs at something a customer says, and I’m struck by how rarely I’ve seen him smile.

I make my way toward him, acutely aware of every step. A couple moves past me, the woman’s hand tucked into the back pocket of her partner’s leather pants. On a nearby couch, two women kiss deeply while a man watches, his hand resting possessively on one woman’s thigh.

By the time I reach the bar, my heart is racing. This was a terrible idea.

Flint sees me before I can speak, his easy smile vanishing into shock, then anger. He finishes serving his customer, then moves down the bar to where I stand.

“Whatthe hell are you doing here?” His question is low but intense.

“I need to talk to you.”

“This isn’t a coffee shop, Briar. You can’t just drop by.”

“It seemed important enough to risk it.” I glance around at the club. “Besides, my last name got me in the door easily enough.”

His jaw tightens. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

He speaks to a woman with blue hair working further down the bar, who nods and takes over his section. Then he’s beside me, his hand firm on my elbow as he guides me away from the main area.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere we can talk without you getting propositioned every five seconds. You’re practically wearing a sign that says ‘fresh meat.’”

He leads me through a door marked “Staff Only” into a small office that features a desk with a computer, filing cabinets, and a worn couch against one wall. He closes the door behind us, muffling the music from the main room.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, crossing his arms. “Coming here, tonight of all nights, when Viktor’s men are watching everything.”

“I was careful. No one followed me.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I needed information about The Hunt. Mrs. Fletcher told me people use the maze during it, and that there may be one for the summer equinox.”

“Okay… So because of that you decided to waltz into the island’s most exclusive sex club wearing a grandma cardigan?” He runs a hand through his hair, dislodging some strands from the tie. “You could have called.”

“You don’t exactly seem like a phone conversation kind of guy.” I move further into the room, needing space from his intensity. “And I’m not a child. I can go where I want.”

“No, you’re just the woman who killed someone two days ago.” His voice drops even lower. “The woman whose property is being searched by the victim’s brother. The woman who should be home establishing her innocence by lying low, not wandering into a den of gossips who’d sell their mothers for the right price.”

“I’m also the woman whose property is going to be overrun by people during The Hunt,” I snap back. “People who might find what we buried. I need to know exactly what to expect and when.”

He sighs, some of the anger draining from him. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Everything. When it will happen. How many people. How to keep them out of certain areas.”

“You can’t keep them out. That’s the point of The Hunt. No boundaries, no rules once it starts.”